


my silent heart, lie still and break

by paradoxadon



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Aid, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Pre-Canon, Self-Hatred, Whump, geralt is an awkward baby, its not as sad as the title suggests, mousesack is a babe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22876123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxadon/pseuds/paradoxadon
Summary: A sham tournament against the School of the Cat leaves Geralt a fugitive from the king. The young druid Mousesack saves Geralt's life and the two begin to travel together, but over time their relationship grows.
Relationships: Ermion | Mousesack/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic came to be because I was reading Geralt's wiki page and discovered how Geralt and Mousesack know each other. I couldn't resist the urge to write baby Geralt and baby Mousesack. Hope you enjoy!

Geralt’s hands are still slick with Gweld’s blood when King Radowit’s men start to kill what remains of the School of the Cat. He manages to make it to the outskirts of Kaer Morhen before he notices. The darkening red that coats his palms and fingers makes him stop short. He swears and starts scrubbing at his hands impotently, not even bothering to go on guard when a man approaches him.

“Name’s Mousesack,” the man says as he narrowly manages to pull Geralt into a bush before King Radowit’s men can see them. Geralt recognizes him as one of the druids that came to facilitate the sham of a tournament the king had organized between the two schools. He appears to be younger than the other two druids, though appearances can be deceiving where magic users are concerned. His hair falls to his chin in tousled ash brown waves and his eyes are steely in both color and conviction.

“Geralt—” Geralt begins, keeping his voice low to keep them from being detected.

“Of Rivia. Yes, I know,” Mousesack says, cutting off Geralt’s whispered introduction. “Let’s move.”

Geralt remembers his training then, and follows after Mousesack with his sword drawn, ready to cut down any king’s men that may cross their path.

Once they’re far enough away from Kaer Morhen to catch their breaths for a moment, Geralt turns his blade on Mousesack.

“I certainly hope you don’t mean to kill the man who has just saved your life,” Mousesack says, looking bemused as he glances down at the steel that rests dangerously close to his throat.

Geralt shrugs. “Occupational hazard. Can I trust you?” His instincts say yes, but his training says he needs to proceed with the utmost caution. The druid’s shrewd eyes soften slightly, and he reaches out tawny hand to clap Geralt on the shoulder.

“Of course you can. If you couldn’t, I’d have let the king’s men kill you in Kaer Morhen,” he reasons. Geralt can find no fault with that. He lowers his sword, although he doesn’t sheath it. “Are you going to ask me why?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I’ll ask you when I’m sure we’re safe.” He doesn’t care why Mousesack has saved his life. Curiosity may get the better of him once they’re settled but roaming the forests of Kaedwen largely unprotected sets Geralt on edge. Now is not the time for idle chit chat.

Mousesack shoots him a brilliant, toothy smile and lets out a clipped laugh. “I knew I would like you, Geralt of Rivia. Come along, then. Let us see if we can find some shelter for the evening. I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer not to be in this forest when the sun goes down.”

* * *

They come upon an abandoned house in a clearing just as the sun begins to set. Mousesack seems delighted, but Geralt insists on checking over the entire house before he’ll let the druid more than a few steps inside. He knows, ostensibly, that Mousesack can handle himself just fine, but that doesn’t make him feel good about turning him loose in what could be a monster’s nest.

It’s a simple enough lay out. One room with a threadbare bed and an empty kitchen, plus a trap door down to a root cellar and a staircase up to an attic loft of some sort. Geralt ascends to the loft and finds nothing but cobwebs. The root cellar proves similarly vacant and when Geralt ascends he finds Mousesack lounging on the now magically repaired bed. The blankets are lavish, and it seems to have doubled in size.

“Have you satisfied yourself that the perfectly empty house is safe, Geralt?” Mousesack says, lips curled into a slight smirk.

Geralt shoots him a dirty look and settles himself in to one of the degrading wooden kitchen chairs. The chair grows softer under him and Geralt looks down to see that the chair has turned in to a plush armchair upholstered in glittering silver brocade.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Geralt says. He isn’t sure he trusts the magic in the first place, and he also doesn’t know what methods the king’s men might be using to track them.

“I can change it back, if you like,” Mousesack says, raising a challenging eyebrow. Geralt huffs. He will admit the chair is comfortable. Much more comfortable than a wooden chair of indeterminate age and structural integrity.

“No, that’s alright,” Geralt concedes. “This will be more comfortable to sleep in.”

Mousesack scoffs. “Why do you think I made the bed so big? I’ve no discomfort in sharing.”

“I’d better stay in the chair,” Geralt says, almost too quickly. He’ll probably get more sleep in the chair than in the bed where he’d have to worry about his position and the presence of his impromptu companion beside him. “One of us should keep watch. You saved my life. The least I can do is look after you until we’re out of danger.”

Mousesack’s expression softens at that. “An ale would do, provided we make it to the next town. You needn’t spend the night holding vigil over me simply because I happened to drag you in to a bush at the right moment.”

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. An ale doesn’t feel like sufficient payment for a life. Particularly not one as useless as his. He looks down at his jerkin, still stained with Gweld’s blood, and swallows thickly. “I should—” He cuts off. Mousesack doesn’t need the narration of mundane actions that Geralt has a tendency to provide.

Geralt rises and begins fumbling with the buckles of his jerkin, but his hands have started to shake, and his palms are sweaty, and he just can’t make the damned things work. He’s so focused on his feeble attempts with the buckles that he doesn’t notice that Mousesack has stood and crossed the room until cool steady hands still his own.

“Here, let me,” Mousesack says quietly, his stormy eyes inscrutable as he gazes up at Geralt. Geralt hesitates for a moment but lets his arms fall by his sides. Mousesack makes short work of the jerkin’s infernal buckles and then offers Geralt a small smile. “There we are. Shall I let you get comfortable? I think I saw some greenery outside that I could make into something palatable.”

“No,” Geralt says hoarsely, unable to look Mousesack in the eye. “It’s dark now, and the forest is likely to be teeming with monsters. I’ll catch something in the morning.”

“Ah, yes,” Mousesack responds sagely. “If I die, you can’t buy me an ale, and then I’ll be forced to haunt you.”

Geralt scowls, grief momentarily forgotten. “I’m serious.” He slips off his bloodied jerkin and leans it up against the wall of the house.

“So am I,” Mousesack says, the corner of his mouth turned up in amusement as he makes his way back to the bed. He perches himself on the edge of it and watches Geralt hawkishly as the Witcher settles himself back in to the high-backed chair the druid had created.

“You should get some sleep,” Geralt decides. He’s had enough of Mousesack’s attempts to add levity to their situation.

“I think you need it more than I.” Mousesack’s expression is pointed, and there’s something akin to concern in his eyes. Geralt can’t understand why a man who barely knows him would be concerned about him, though, so it must be some other emotion that Geralt hasn’t encountered before.

Geralt scoffs. “I’m trained to function on as little sleep as possible. I’ll be just fine.” Truthfully, Geralt is waiting for his companion to fall asleep so that he can mourn Gweld in peace. Geralt knows Mousesack knows what he’s done, but that doesn’t mean the druid has to know that Geralt feels anything over it.

Mousesack casts his gaze down to his russet boots and then back up at Geralt, eyes enigmatic as ever. “Perhaps I will turn in.”

Geralt looks down as Mousesack toes off his boots and tugs off the finely knit woolen socks he’s wearing, apparently intent on undressing properly for bed. He lets himself watch momentarily while the druid removes his bronze doublet, but the moment Mousesack’s hands go for the waist of his dark brown breeches Geralt drops his gaze again. It doesn’t stop him from catching a glimpse of toned bottom before Mousesack’s undershirt falls the rest of the way down to his knees. Geralt mentally curses his pale complexion, but if Mousesack notices the flush creeping up the back of Geralt’s neck he doesn’t say so.

Once he’s certain that Mousesack is firmly under his conjured blankets, Geralt lets himself meet the druid’s gaze again. “Goodnight,” he says, earning himself a smile from Mousesack.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Mousesack replies. “Do try to get some sleep, won’t you?”

Geralt nods, although he knows he won’t be successful. Not with Gweld’s blood still staining his boots and the taste of bile in his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt doesn’t sleep. He sits in the chair, stock still and senses on high alert. His sword is gripped tight in his hand and he’s prepared to defend Mousesack to the death. It isn’t so much the druid himself that inspires such loyalty, but the feeling Geralt has that he should be dead.

His sleeves are rusty on the cuffs from Gweld’s blood and he can still smell the coppery tang on his jerkin even from here and he can’t let himself sleep for even a second or else Mousesack will surely perish and then how will Geralt even begin to repay him? No, he won’t be responsible for the death of another man who has done nothing but show him kindness, and he certainly won’t allow the life debt he’s so undeserving of go unpaid.

He listens acutely to the slow, rhythmic thumping of Mousesack’s heart, comforting himself in the knowledge that the druid is alive and well. The little house is dark, but Geralt’s night vision is like a cat’s so he can make out Mousesack’s features. He stares unabashedly, memorizing every inch of the druid’s face. The curve of his aquiline nose, his high cheekbones, his full lips—Geralt commits it all to memory. He refuses to let himself forget the face of the man who saved his life, even knowing he didn’t deserve to be saved.

Geralt finally lets tears start to fall once he’s certain that Mousesack is completely asleep. He muffles a sob with his hand, trying not to wake the druid as his heart breaks for the loss of Gweld. He knows he can never be forgiven for what he’s done, and he doesn’t want the comfort he knows will come if Mousesack hears him.

He cries until he has no tears left, just dry, hiccupping sobs that he continues to hide in his sleeve as he tunes back in to Mousesack’s heartbeat, suddenly gripped with anxiety. He manages to sync his breathing with the druid’s, and it calms him down enough to wipe the tear tracks from his face with his grubby palms. He knows he must look a mess, but he doesn’t really care. His red rimmed eyes will no doubt just be chalked up to sleep deprivation in the morning.

He almost entertains the thought of sleep, but when he closes his eyes all he can see is the betrayal etched on Gweld’s face and how easily his sword had hewn flesh and bone. He doesn’t close his eyes after that; just sits in his chair, listening to the gentle thump of Mousesack’s heart until the sun begins to filter through one of the house’s grubby windows.

* * *

Mousesack begins to stir around dawn, which suits Geralt just fine. He hadn’t been willing to go hunt for their breakfast until the druid had awoken. Something about the prospect of leaving a sleeping man defenseless like that turns his stomach.

Mousesack turns to Geralt, eyes bleary from sleep, and frowns. “Didn’t you sleep at all?” he asks. Geralt shakes his head.

“Wasn’t tired,” is all Geralt says on the subject. Mousesack’s eyebrows pinch together in what might be concern. “I’ll go get breakfast.”

Mousesack seems to know better than to argue, because he allows Geralt to go hunt without a word. He manages to catch a rabbit without much issue and is on his way back to the little house, wondering if Mousesack could conjure some vegetables for a stew, when he hears a few sticks break just behind him.

He turns just in time for a warg to leap on to him, knocking him down and sinking its teeth in to his unprotected shoulder. He swears under his breath, wishing for a moment that he’d thought to put his jerkin on before he left the house. The warg releases its grip, but it clamps down on the side of his neck before he can reach his sword.

Grunting with the effort, Geralt manages to grab his sword and gut the beast, causing the bite on his throat to loosen. The wounds sting terribly and Geralt can feel blood pouring from the punctures as he catches his breath. He pushes the warg off himself and rises on shaky legs to stumble his way back to the house.

Geralt barely manages to make it in the door before he starts to falter. Mousesack is there before Geralt can blink, prying the rabbit from Geralt’s grip and laying it to the side before steadying him with firm hands to examine the damage.

“What happened?” Mousesack asks, brows furrowed, as he tugs at the bottom of Geralt’s shirt. Geralt allows the druid to pull his shirt off him, wincing when the fabric embedded in his wound peels its way out of the deep punctures.

“Warg,” Geralt replies simply as his vision starts to swim. Mousesack seems to sense Geralt’s increasing unsteadiness, so he guides Geralt over to the bed and gently pushes him down on to it.

“This is going to hurt,” Mousesack warns as he produces a bowl of water and a rag seemingly out of thin air. He soaks the rag with water and goes to blot at the wound, but Geralt catches his hands.

“You don’t have to…” Geralt trails off, his mouth going dry. If he lets Mousesack patch him up, that’ll be another life debt he owes the druid.

Mousesack frowns and extracts his hands easily from Geralt’s waning grip. He begins to wash the wound and Geralt hisses as the rough cloth touches it. After a few moments, the cloth is replaced by something warm that radiates through Geralt’s shoulder and throat. Mousesack is expending magic to repair Geralt’s wounds and Geralt wishes he would stop. He knows he’s not worth it.

“I should be dead,” he says, shooting Mousesack an urgent look.

Mousesack doesn’t stop his work, moving to bandage the wound with more of the same cloth he’d cleaned it with. “Don’t be foolish, Geralt. Witchers are capable of surviving much worse than this,” he says, not looking up from Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt tries to shake his head, but Mousesack’s hand stops him. “ _I should be dead_ ,” Geralt rasps once more, trying to make the druid understand.

Mousesack’s hands still, his work on the wound finished, and he finally looks Geralt in the face. His ever-inscrutable eyes seem tinged with the barest hint of melancholy and Geralt, in his growing delirium, reaches up to touch Mousesack’s face.

“Don’t look like that on my account,” Geralt says softly. His voice is starting to go, but he manages to get out what he needs to say. “I deserve far less than the care you’ve already given me. Do not waste your melancholy on me.”

The look on Mousesack’s face makes Geralt’s heart lurch. “And what in the world makes you think that? If I didn’t find you to be worthy of my care, I wouldn’t provide it.”

“But—” Geralt begins, attempting to remind Mousesack of the fact that he’d slain a man he’d considered a brother not two days previous.

“But nothing. Consider the matter settled, Geralt,” Mousesack says firmly, putting his hand over the one Geralt placed on his cheek. The druid removes Geralt’s hand but keeps hold of it in his own as he uses magic to drag the silver chair closer to the bedside. “Now rest, you foolish man. You need to heal.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Geralt wakes, the sun is coming through the windows on the opposite side of the house. He can smell rabbit stew and his boots are no longer on his feet, but Mousesack is still hunched over the bed with his hand in Geralt’s. The druid seems to have nodded off, and Geralt can’t help noticing that Mousesack looks even younger when his face is slack with sleep. He slips his hand out of Mousesack’s and brushes a few strands of the druid’s criminally soft hair back from his face.

Mousesack lets out a contented hum and cracks an eye open just slightly as he starts to lift his head. “You’re awake,” he says, a smile growing on his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes pleasantly.

“You stayed,” Geralt replies as he shifts to try to sit up. Mousesack’s warm hand on his bare chest stops him.

“Lie down. Your wound is still healing.” Mousesack fixes Geralt with a stern look. “And where should I have gone without you?”

Geralt scowls but does as he’s told. “The next town?” He doesn’t understand why Mousesack seems so intent on staying together. “You’d probably be better off without me.”

“If you think I’m going to leave you to die, I’ve given you a truly terrible impression of me,” Mousesack says, frowning as he stands to check and change Geralt’s bandages. “No matter what _you_ think, I think you’re worth saving.”

Geralt catches a rather undignified sound before it can leave his mouth. He shies away from Mousesack’s piercing gaze, as if the druid’s steely eyes could sum the contents of his soul and find them wanting.

Once the wound is redressed, a bowl of rabbit stew is shoved in to Geralt’s hands. “Eat,” says Mousesack. “You need it.”

Geralt shovels the stew gratefully into his mouth, finding the warmth of the thick broth soothing. The stew warms him from the inside out and seems to settle a bit of the turmoil in his heart. “It’s good,” he says, once he’s eaten half the bowl. “Thank you.”

Mousesack smiles broadly at that. Geralt resolves to make the druid smile more often, at least until they part ways. “My mother’s recipe. One of the few things I have left of her,” Mousesack informs Geralt, his eyes tinged once again with that little bit of melancholy.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, although he can’t quite relate. “I never knew my mother. Or my father, for that matter. Vesemir is the closest thing I have to a parent.”

“I never knew my father either,” Mousesack shares, sliding his chair slightly closer to the bed. “My mother was killed when I was a child. I was raised by the druids who trained me.” Mousesack chuckles at this, and Geralt looks at him in puzzlement. “We aren’t so different, you and I,” the druid says by way of answer to a question Geralt hadn’t asked.

Geralt supposes that’s true, although Mousesack is lovely and cheerful and practically glittering with magic and Geralt…is not. He’s started to think there might be more similarities between himself and the monsters he’s been trained to kill than he’d previously acknowledged.

That doesn’t stop him from spending the next few hours talking with Mousesack. He lets the druid do most of the talking. Lets him ask questions and answer Geralt’s own, and by the time the sun has dipped below the horizon they almost feel like old friends.

This would be fine, were it not for the fact that their newfound friendship has left Geralt with the realization that his travelling companion is possibly the most attractive man he has ever met. He’s known this from the beginning, of course, but he’s been choosing to ignore it in favor of keeping them both safe. Now, confronted with the fact that Mousesack is not only handsome but also a delight to be around, Geralt is starting to wonder how long it will be before he ruins everything with his silly infatuation.

* * *

About the time he’s starting to yawn, Mousesack, who is too kind to Geralt by half, insists that Geralt take the bed for the night.

“I refuse to let a wounded man sleep in a chair,” he declares. Geralt scowls.

“I’ve already ruined your bedding. I won’t take the bed from you as well,” Geralt persists. He refuses to let Mousesack spend the night in the chair. He begins to rise on shaky legs, but Mousesack is right there before Geralt can take a step.

“Get back in that bed right now, Geralt, before I make you,” Mousesack says sternly, the steadying hand splayed across Geralt’s chest causing a flush to heat the tips of Geralt’s ears.

“Then we should share,” Geralt counters without thinking as he lets Mousesack push him back in to the bed.

Mousesack looks delighted at the prospect. “An acceptable compromise, finally,” he says, starting to strip down to his shirt once more. Geralt manages to keep his gaze averted until he feels the mattress dip beside him.

The druid is close. Close enough to touch. Geralt restrains himself from reaching across the small gap between them and threading his fingers through Mousesack’s hair. From leaning in and pressing their mouths together. Geralt knows he isn’t in love. His training saw to that. But if that’s true, why does his heart flutter when Mousesack smiles?

“You look far away,” Mousesack says softly, drawing Geralt from his thoughts as he pulls the blankets up to his chin. Geralt hums his agreement. Mousesack mercifully doesn’t press. “Perhaps you’re just tired,” the druid reasons. “You should get some sleep.”

Geralt huffs out a laugh. “I think that’s my line,” he says, but he allows his eyes to slide closed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I'm not sure when I'll have the next one, but I will be updating as soon as I get it done. Thanks for bearing with me, guys, and thanks for reading.

Geralt wakes to a warm weight on his chest and silky hair tickling his nose. The steady heartbeat of his bedmate is soothing, and Geralt isn’t unhappy to find himself holding a sleeping Mousesack. The problem lies in Geralt’s assumption that an awake Mousesack would be less than pleased to be held by Geralt. He isn’t sure how to extract himself without waking the druid.

Unfortunately, by the time Geralt has come up with a plan of action Mousesack’s heartrate has quickened and he’s coming groggily back into consciousness. Mousesack picks up his head and sends a sleepy smile in Geralt’s direction. Geralt thinks he must be imagining the faint flush that seems to color Mousesack’s cheeks.

“Good morning,” Mousesack says, voice deep with early morning fatigue. The druid rolls on to his back, pinning Geralt’s arm beneath him, but otherwise makes no move to remove himself from Geralt’s personal space. Geralt can’t decide if he’s pleased.

“Good morning,” he manages, trying to maintain the illusion of nonchalance. Even if Mousesack does lie with men—which Geralt supremely doubts—there’s no way the handsome druid would stoop so low as to involve himself with the likes of Geralt.

“Sleep well?” Mousesack asks conversationally as he rolls on to his side to look at Geralt and presses his cold toes against Geralt’s warm calf.

Geralt hisses at the icy contact and scowls in Mousesack’s direction but makes no move to shift his leg away. “I slept as well as one can with a neck wound that would be fatal to a human,” he says, deflecting from the fact that he’s not sure he’s ever slept so well in his life.

Mousesack lets out a hum of what might be concern but also might be curiosity. “I should tend to your dressings,” he says softly, letting his bold fingers trace Geralt’s clavicle on his uninjured side. A shiver runs up Geralt’s spine at the touch and then suddenly Mousesack is kneeling on the bed, his bare calf pressed against Geralt’s forearm as he leans over to lift the bandages and take a peek at the wound. His expression is stoic and Geralt fears the worst.

“How bad?” Geralt asks, steeling himself for a description of his new deformity.

Mousesack shakes his head. “You’ll certainly have scars, but they’ll be faint.” He traces his fingers lightly over the fresh dimples in Geralt’s skin and Geralt draws in a sharp breath. Mousesack’s hand stills at the sound. “Sorry.”

He goes to retract his hand, but Geralt catches his wrist. “No,” he begins hoarsely. “It’s alright, you just…” He trails off, trying to decide how to phrase what he wants to say. “It surprised me. I don’t get a great many gentle touches in my line of work.”

Mousesack furrows his brow at that. “It seems unfair,” he says, letting his fingertips ghost along the curve of Geralt’s stubbled jaw. At Geralt’s puzzled expression, the druid elaborates. “You dedicate your life to saving humanity from monsters and they reward you with nothing but pain.”

“Yes, well, I have not known life to be especially fair,” Geralt murmurs bitterly, turning away from Mousesack’s gentle caress. “Nor have I found many humans to be especially kind.”

Now it’s Mousesack’s turn to let bitterness creep into his voice. “I’m not a child. I know the world isn’t fair. I had just hoped that humans would be able to tell the difference between heroes and villains by now.”

A rueful chuckle escapes Geralt’s lips. He’s only really left Kaer Morhen with Vesemir, but he’s seen how the public treats Witchers. “Sometimes in order to fight monsters, you have to become one.”

Mousesack frowns deeply. “You’re not a monster, Geralt. That much is clear to me.”

Geralt scoffs. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

Geralt’s yellow eyes meet Mousesack’s and he bites the inside of his cheek as he tries not to shout. “You saw what happened at the tournament,” he says, voice strained with emotion. He looks away before he can catch the look of disgust he’s sure will darken Mousesack’s handsome face.

“Yes, I did,” Mousesack says, his tone measured. “I saw that you were talked into a fight you didn’t ask for, and I saw that you were about to lay down your weapons, and I saw someone cast a spell on you before you could.” He draws a shuddering breath, as if the experience of watching had wounded him somehow. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Geralt shakes his head, shame settling in the pit of his stomach as his cheeks grow wet with tears. “I should have been stronger. Fought harder against the enchantment. I—” He cuts off, sucking in a breath and trying to regain is composure. “He was brother to me in all but blood and he’s dead by my hand. I cannot even begin to think I could be absolved of such a crime, magical intervention or no.”

Mousesack places a gentle hand on Geralt’s cheek and turns the Witcher’s face to look him in the eyes once more. “There was nothing you could have done. Your grief is well earned, but you don’t have to pay penance for something out of your control.”

Geralt scrubs at his cheeks with his rough linen sleeve, trying to wipe away the tears that stain his face with cloth still stained from Gweld’s blood. “I should go catch us something else to eat,” he says brusquely, trying to change the subject to anything but this.

Mousesack’s expression goes so tender that Geralt’s heart skips a beat. “We have plenty of stew, little wolf. Just rest. We’ll need to be moving on soon, and we need you in tip top shape, hmm?” he offers, causing Geralt to frown.

“I don’t like to feel useless,” Geralt says as Mousesack rises from the bed and begins putting on his breeches. Mousesack turns to look at Geralt, shirt half tucked in, his face incredulous.

“Useless? Geralt, you’re wounded. It’s useful to both of us in the long run for you to be at full strength. I won’t have you galivanting around the forest looking for food when we still have half a pot of stew from yesterday,” Mousesack scolds as he finishes stuffing his shirt into his breeches.

Geralt averts his gaze, trying not to let his eyes settle on the swatch of tanned collarbone he can see peaking out from under the open neck of Mousesack’s shirt. “Fine. But we need to get moving before the afternoon. The nearest town is nearly five hours on foot, and I’d prefer us to make it there before dark.”

* * *

They do make it to the next town before dark, and Mousesack manages to get them a room in an inn for as long as they’d like to stay. Geralt suspects there’s magic involved, but he says nothing to Mousesack about it. He’s in no position to argue, considering he would have likely just had them camp on the outskirts of the town. He does protest when Mousesack insists upon leaving him in the room for what he says will only be an hour at most, but quickly turns in to three hours of solid pacing. By the time Mousesack returns, Geralt is practically climbing the walls out of nerves.

“I don’t understand why I couldn’t come with,” he says huffily as Mousesack enters the room laden with a few parcels.

“Were you worried about me, Geralt?” Mousesack teases, his full lips curled into a wry smile.

Geralt scowls. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, even though it’s a blatant lie. Mousesack just arches an eyebrow and tosses one of the parcels at Geralt, his smile never slipping from his face.

“I think I guessed your measurements well enough, but I can always size things up if need be,” he informs the Witcher cheerfully.

Now Geralt is nervous. He opens the parcel tentatively and pulls out a shirt and breeches made of finer material than he’s ever owned. The shirt has tight cuffs that lace over his forearms nearly to the elbow and is made of a soft, pale grey cambric that’s embroidered with silvery vines on the cuffs and on either side of the neck slit. The breeches are simple enough, made of stretchy buckskin dyed black and fastened at the front with a series of small pewter buttons.

“I can’t accept these,” are the first words out of Geralt’s mouth once he regains the ability to speak. “They must have cost a small fortune.”

Mousesack scoffs. “Nonsense. The merchant gave me a discount. Besides, you look as if you’ve just stepped off a battlefield, and you smell like it as well. You need a change of clothes.”

Geralt can’t see the fault in Mousesack’s logic. “Thank you, then,” he says, trying to settle his discomfort at the druid giving him such fine gifts, even if there is a strategic explanation.

“Don’t put them on yet, though,” Mousesack bids before Geralt can even begin to disrobe. “I’ve arranged a bath for us as well. I’d wager we both need it.”

Geralt nods, though he can feel heat creep up the back of his neck at the prospect of them bathing in each other’s vicinity. The thought of seeing more of Mousesack than he already has sets Geralt on edge. He knows he’s attracted to the druid, as much as he’s tried not to be, and he doesn’t want to make Mousesack uncomfortable. He resolves to just look as little as possible and hope for the best.


End file.
